


Storybook Pirates

by WolffyLuna



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age II Quest - Demands of the Qun, Dragon Age II Quest - To Catch a Thief, F/F, Flirting, Mostly Canon Compliant, POV Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Hawke grew up on tales of pirates. Tales of dashing rogues, battling wind and waves and worse ne’er-do-wells. People who were just bad enough that they got to do the fun things, but good enough that you could rely on them to race across the waters to go save king and country and their one true lady love.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Storybook Pirates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by @kawuli

Hawke grew up on tales of pirates. Tales of dashing rogues, battling wind and waves and worse ne’er-do-wells. People who were just bad enough that they got to do the fun things, but good enough that you could rely on them to race across the waters to go save king and country and their one true lady love.

She grew up running along the shores of Lake Calenhad, brandishing a stick as a cutlass, and saving Bethany from the Dread Tax Customs Officer Carver. (None of them were quite sure what a customs officer was, other than, presumably, the natural enemy of the pirate.) 

They took turns, as pirate and captive and customs officer, but Marian was the eldest. She got to strong arm her way into being the pirate more than her fair share of times.

If Lothering was on the coast, she might have felt different about pirates, felt about them more the way she felt about highwayman. But she grew up on the shores of a lake. The sea, and the dangers of being boarded, and having all your goods taken, and the question of whether you would starve, were just as fictional as pirates to her.

And then she grew older, and maybe most would have grown out of the tales of pirates—but when she grew older and magic sparked from her fingers—running away across the waves where no one knew who she was and no one was in a position to care, being just bad enough to do the fun things, but good enough to still be a hero, and not a bomb with a slow burning fuse to abomination-hood—Well, that had appeal. 

* * *

She ran away across the waves, to a town that didn’t know who she was, and at the time, wasn’t quite in a position to care—It wasn’t as fun as it was in the stories. Because this was real life, and in real life you have to grieve the people who die, and you can’t be assured of your victory because you are the ‘good guy’, can’t be sure you were the ‘good guy’. But she made the best of it. She would be the dashing apostate that was here to help, so she could get enough money to go and be a pirate of the Deep Roads.

(“They’re _roads,”_ Varric pointed out. “If you’re anything, you’re a tomb robber, or a highwayman, not a pirate.”

Hawke was aware of this, but still had her instinctive distaste of highwaymen. “Tomb robber just does not quite have the same ring to it.”

Varric held out his hands, and smiled. “It all depends on how you say it, Hawke.”)

* * *

She went to the Hanged Man, and met Isabela. Helped her out, offered her a cut of any jobs she helped her with, hung out getting far too sloshed on far too terrible liquor.

Isabela was a pirate, a real one—and one just like in the stories. Okay, so her jokes would never get told in a children’s pirate story. But she was cocky and brave and sure of herself and gave witty one liners as she ran people through. She swayed as she walked, compensating for the yaw of the ship that wasn’t under her feet, even on land. She joked and drank and was incorrigibly greedy—but she was good hearted on some level.

She was a story book pirate, and even if Hawke was older now—you still always had that pull to childhood stories, that nostalgia for things that never happened. All that was different is she could turn to the starry eyes of ‘you’re my _hero’_ into the starry eyes of ‘you’re beautiful—want to have your way with me?’

(Isabela laughed. “You know it’s not _that_ easy to get into my pants?”

“Really? What if I said I’d been looking forward to a chance to be debauched by a pirate queen?”

Isabela tapped a finger under Hawke’s chin. “I’d say I’d been looking for a chance for an apostate to have their way with me—”

“But that ship has unfortunately already sailed?”

She smiled. “Similar ships. But this specific ship?” She put her hands on Hawke’s hips, pulled her close. Her breath smelled of cheap whiskey distilled badly, and, somehow, the salt of the sea. (Hawke guess that must be her imagination.) “I’d be more than happy to board.”

Hawke grinned. “I thought you said you weren’t that easy.”

“’Beautiful’ is a dime a dozen. But ‘pirate queen’? That’s rare. Can’t let that opportunity go by.” She kissed Hawke, hard and all pressure, nearly pushing her over.

Hawke managed to extricate herself for one second to breath, and say “Aye-aye, my captain.”)

* * *

Isabela was not a story book pirate. Isabela told a story—and Hawke felt embarrassed that she hadn’t spotted it. Hadn’t taken the thought that this was too good to be true to it’s logical conclusion—that it _wasn’t_.

She knew Varric span tales. He said as much.

But because Isabela did not say it outright, and the stories were about herself, and Hawke wanted to believe in heroic pirate queens—she missed it.

She freed the slaves in her hold, and that was good—but she dumped them on the coast, no supplies, no by-your-leave, no nothing. And she may not have had a lot of choice, but it stuck in Hawke’s craw. But that could be put aside as life not being a simple as stories, people not being able to pick the perfect option.

And stealing to Tome of Koslun. Okay, so pirates _stole_ things, Hawke was aware of that. But it got her crew killed, and dumped a bunch of angry Qunari of Kirkwall’s heads—but still reasonable. She was imperfect but she tried and Hawke would take ‘tried.’ And she had lied about it—but no real pirate was Owen the Honourable. Real pirates lied, and Hawke knew that.

But running off with the one thing that would make the Qunari peacefully go away? To save her own skin (assuming Castillon was honourable and wouldn’t kill her anyway, assuming Hawke wouldn’t be able to save her from Castillon)? It was still reasonable. That was the frustrating thing. It was the sensible if self-centred—but she still believed in the greedy, seemingly self centred person, running forth to save the day, because that’s ‘just what anyone would do.’

But no, Isabela ran.

(And okay, Hawke had given it to her, and said it was hers, but she’d hoped she could talk her around, explain that surely if they could fight their way through that, Castillon would be no trouble—

But Isabela ‘didn’t want to cause any trouble.’ The bitch.)

And now half of Kirkwall was on fire.

* * *

Her judgement of Isabela may have been a _bit_ premature, Hawke would admit, as Isabela strode through the double doors, tome under her arm. “I believe I can help.”

And striding over a prone Sten was also a very nice touch.

So, Isabela:1, Arishok:0, because Hawke was more than happy to let bygones be bygones, and trading people for the safety of a city was wrong.

“When a pirate was more willing to be the bigger person than you are, that’s not looking good for you,” Hawke said, staring up at the Arishok in an attempt to be intimidating.

“Thievery must be punished. If you are willing to stand you life in for this woman—”

Hawke took her staff off her back, cool flame leaping over its end at her touch. “I am.”

The Arishok nodded. “Then we duel.”

Hawke was a good fighter. Being able to set people on fire from a distance did give her a, maybe _unfair_ , advantage in that situation.

But burly Qunari with axes were very much not her forte. The Arishok had evidently fought mages before, knew how to get in their faces and not give them the room to cast. Every spell was risk of getting smote by that tree-cutter—and she had misjudged too many times already. She rolled back, healed herself, stopped the bleeding—and felt her connection to the Fade weaken. Not much, but enough to know she wouldn’t be able to heal herself for the next ten minutes. She went to raise herself up off the floor--

The Arishok ran over.

No time for standing. Hawke raised her staff, trying to will fire into the world, try and get him burning and rolling on the floor and her having room.

The fire grew weakly, piecemeal, like trying to light a forest fire with a candle—it would happen, but would it be soon enough?

The Arishok gained on her, and the flame was so, so small.

Something flew at the Arishok. Metal, shiny, landing in his back. A dagger.

Isabela’s dagger.

It was a weak stab, barely holding into his flesh.

But moving light objects was easier than conjuring fire, she could do it in her sleep (and she had, occaisionally, done just that, and accidentally made a thankfully empty chamberpot fly around the room). She released the fire spell, with an embarrassingly small puff of smoke, and pulled the dagger towards her.

The Arishok was strong, but he was made of flesh, with most of his important bits stuck in his chest.

The dagger inched through him, and he raised his arms, aiming to hit her while was casting—and then the dagger flew right through him.

It caught Hawke on her hand, cutting her knuckles, but honestly she didn’t care. A slice out of her knuckles was better than being sliced in half. The Arishok fell forward, and landed on her.

The Qunari, as one, turned and left.

“Uh, hey? A little help, here?”

Aveline and Fenris ran over, and helped roll the Arishok off her.

Isabela leaned on a pillar, and watched from the sidelines. 

* * *

The official line was that Hawke had duelled the Arishok, using daggers, and stabbed him. The Champion of Kirkwall was most definitely not an apostate, what are you talking about, they are a good honest stabby bastard, just like you and me.

The line from Varric was that Hawke was apparently capable of summoning knives out of thin air.

The rest of them, that were in the room, knew what had happened.

Hawke may have landed the final blow, but Isabela had killed the Arishok.

And saved Hawke.

And indirectly saved Kirkwall.

Which made up pretty well for endangering it in the first place.

* * *

Hawke bought a drink from the bar, and toted it over to Isabela. It was whiskey—but the good stuff. Old, sensibly distilled, from Fereldan. Tasted of peat, but apparently some people liked that.

She placed it on the table in front of Isabela. “Here you go.”

Isabela picked it up, and sniffed it. “The good stuff? For poor old me? You shouldn’t have.”

Hawke leaned on the table nonchalantly. “Only the best for my favourite pirate queen.”

Isabela smiled, and took a sip.

Hawke spoke quietly, so that only Isabela could hear, and even the most determined eavesdroppers couldn’t. “And thanks for the help back there.”

“Only the best for my favourite rogueish apostate.”


End file.
